The Gauntlet Assassin (An Action Thriller)

by L. J. Sellers

  “I’d like to see my mother’s doctor.”

  “I’ll page her.”

  Paul waited in Isabel’s room, reading the evening news on his Dock and glancing over at the hospital bed every few minutes. His foster mother slept with labored breathing, but the sight of the white blanket gently rising on her chest kept him calm.

  After twenty minutes, the doctor slipped into the room. Her hair was so short, at first he thought she was man, then he noticed her breasts and delicate features.

  “I’m Jalene Walsh, on the cardiovascular service.”

  “Paul Madsen. Isabel’s foster son.”

  “You’re not biologically or legally related to the patient?” The doctor scowled, looking a little less delicate.

  Paul didn’t like the sound of her question. “Technically, no. Why?”

  “We may have to make some decisions. Does she have any other family?”

  Paul bristled at the implication. “I’m her family. Her husband and daughter died in a car accident many years ago. She has a sister, but she’s in a nursing home in Florida with Alzheimer’s.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, but we’re in a complex situation here.”

  “What you do mean?”

  “Isabel has a blocked artery and needs bypass surgery to survive. But because of her metabolic disease, her health insurance won’t pay for it.” The doctor paused, giving Paul a chance to respond, but there was no point. This was the new reality for the elderly. The doctor continued. “If we treat her aggressively, she’ll likely hit her yearly expenditure maximum after about three days. Beyond that, she’ll leave you with a substantial debt. If we give her a minimum of care, her coverage will last longer but she might not.”

  Anguish threatened to overwhelm him. Isabel was going to die. The only person in the world who had ever genuinely cared about him would soon be gone, leaving him once again alone in the world. Somehow they expected him to make a rational decision about how many days she had left, versus how much money to spend.

  He shook his head. “I think you should do everything you can for her.”

  The doctor sighed. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Isabel died four days later, despite the blood thinners and oxygen therapy. She’d lapsed into unconsciousness the second day, so Paul had gone back to work and tried to distract himself with projects. He’d visited the hospital every evening, but Isabel hadn’t known he was there. When he’d showed up this evening, she was gone.

  Paul stood by the bed and said goodbye, his heart pulsing with mixed emotions. He felt abandoned, lonely, and angry. Who would he turn to now to share the little things? He still had Lilly, but she couldn’t verbally remind him that his life had value. Camille, even if they got together, would never love him unconditionally the way Isabel had. Paul let himself cry for a moment.

  Footsteps interrupted his grief. “Mr. Madsen?”

  “Yes?” He turned, irritated.

  “I’m Liz Jung. I work in the business office. I’d like to make an appointment for us to talk about your mother’s hospital bill.”

  Her body was still warm. Something inside him snapped. “Get away from me!”

  She left the room as quickly as she came in.

  The hospital bill weighed on Paul’s mind as he drove home. With a coinsurance policy, Isabel had to pay thirty percent of everything. Paul guessed she owed at least twenty thousand for her hospital stay. He knew he wasn’t legally obligated to pay the bill since Isabel had never adopted him, but she was his mother and she would have hated to leave a debt. He would find a way.

  He took the next day off and drove to Isabel’s apartment in the Silver Spring area and used the key she’d given him to get in. He missed the house he’d grown up in, but Isabel had sold it years earlier to pay for hip surgery when she was fifty-eight. Their little home had been cozy, with warm colors and soft rugs and pillows. Walking into Isabel’s cheerful living room as an abused and abandoned child and seeing her smile had been the first ray of hope in his life. Paul wished he’d visited her more often in the last year. One Sunday dinner a month had not been enough.

  After sitting for an hour looking at photos, Paul forced himself to get moving. He spent the afternoon organizing a small memorial service for Isabel, even though few would attend. He informed her neighbors, her church pastor, and a friend from Isabel’s time as a state-sponsored foster parent. He notified her sister’s caregivers too, then wondered if Isabel had any money in savings and what would happen to it. Would the hospital get it all? Paul had never counted on an inheritance, so it didn’t matter that much to him.

  He ordered pizza to be delivered, not caring if he blew his diet for one day, then searched for a will. Why had they never talked about what would happen when she died? Because Isabel had only been sixty-nine. He’d always thought they’d have more time.

  Chapter 18

  Tues., May 9, 6:46 p.m.

  A deputy clerk handed Lara a plastic bag with her possessions. “Have a nice evening.”

  Lara almost laughed out loud. “Will do.” She wanted to sprint for the door, but exhaustion kept her to a jog. The monitor bracelet rubbed lightly on her ankle. She hated the thought of wearing it during the Battle fights, or worse yet, in the Marathon, if she made it that far.

  Outside, the evening sun had never seemed so bright and welcoming. Near the entrance, Thaddeus Morton stood under a shade tree, furtively smoking a cigarette and looking overheated and irritated. Traffic buzzed behind him.

  “Thanks for posting bail.” Lara had a lot more she wanted to say, but the sidewalk in front of the massive correctional facility was not the place.

  “I didn’t really have a choice.” He pivoted and headed toward a nearby triangular parking lot. Lara followed him to a black Mercedes and climbed in. The interior was stifling hot, but Morton cranked the air conditioning.

  “Can we stop at the first grocery store we come to? I need to buy something immediately.” Her body was starving and eating its own muscle—the last thing she needed during the competition.

  “Sure. Are you okay? The D.C. police are known to be abusive.”

  Lara let out a small sarcastic noise. “They’re lazy too.” She turned in the seat to face him. “What the hell is going on?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” He wouldn’t look at her.

  “Bullshit. The shooter at your house in Eugene was not your jilted boyfriend. The bastard is here in D.C. now, and he came to my room last night to kill me and stunned my roommate instead. Now Kirsten’s dead and I’m charged with her murder. Who the hell is he? And why did he try to kill you?”

  Morton was silent as he made a left and headed for the expressway. Lara noticed the city didn’t have a tall skyline like other metropolitan areas, and strips of trees were everywhere. It was also completely flat. “Don’t forget I used to be a detective. If you tell me what’s going on, maybe I can help figure this out.”

  After a long silence, the commissioner shook his head. “I honestly don’t know who he is. I’m as puzzled as you are.”

  “Why did you lie and say he was your boyfriend?”

  “If I had reported it, I would have been scrutinized and questioned in Eugene. I needed to get back to the capital without jeopardizing my job. Government employees are held to a different standard.”

  “Why the bullshit about your lover?”

  “Because Richard had just been there and left after a fight. The shooter showed up moments later. So it was mostly true and therefore plausible.”

  Lara wasn’t buying it. “What are you keeping from me?”

  “Nothing. I’d never seen the guy before in my life.”

  “You’re saying a complete stranger came to your house and shot you?”

  “This is why I didn’t tell you. It sounds crazy.” Morton paused. “He might be the boyfriend of a woman I slept with.”

  “But you don’t know his name?”

  “No.”

  “How did he
get in?”

  “He walked in. My boyfriend had just left in a huff and the door was unlocked.”

  “Could he be Richard’s new lover? Maybe he followed Richard to your house and tried to kill you in a jealous rage.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “We have to figure out who he is before he kills us both.”

  “How do we do that?”

  “I saw him at the orientation. Blond, midsized guy leaning against the back wall. You have to let me search the footage and isolate his image. Then I’ll access CODIS and see if he has a record.”

  “How do you have that kind of clearance?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  Morton drove like a man with an emergency and Lara started to feel unnerved. “Are you taking me back to the hotel?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “I’m not sure it’s safe.”

  “We’ll move you to a different room that not even the desk clerks will know about.”

  Lara wasn’t reassured and hoped her gun was still retrievable. “I’m still in the contest?”

  “Of course. The homicide has been good for ratings and the voters want you back.”

  “They do?”

  “Minda aired the clip of Kirsten coming after you, and you’ve gained a following.” The commissioner glanced at her and shrugged. “Of course, some of the viewers might want you back so they can punish you.”

  The thought made Lara feel weak. “I thought we were stopping at a store.”

  “I forgot.”

  “I need something in my stomach now.”

  “We’ll be at the hotel in fifteen minutes. You can eat at the restaurant.”

  “No, I can’t. Just find a grocery store.”

  He gave her an odd look and headed for the nearest exit. “Do you have special dietary needs?”

  “You could say that.”

  The commissioner waited in the car while Lara ran into a Safeway and bought a dozen cans of ProFast. She didn’t particularly care for the drink, which was a little thick and bitter with vegetables, but it was a great source of nutrition, and the stash would come in handy. Morton watched her down a can as soon as she was back in the car.

  “Didn’t they feed you in jail?”

  “Nothing I could eat.”

  “Are you allergic to gluten?”

  “Let it go. We have more important things to talk about.”

  “You’re right.” He drove past a homeless camping area in the corner of the parking lot and turned toward the expressway. “What else can we do to find this guy?”

  “Get his photo to the security people at the arena and the hotel.”

  “And if they spot him? What do we do? We can’t just have him arrested without reason.”

  The commissioner’s lack of imagination irritated her. “I’ll tell the police I saw him talking to Kirsten. If they bring him in for questioning, they’ll run him through the databases and hopefully take a DNA sample. Maybe that’ll be enough to get him charged with her murder.”

  “What if it’s not?”

  Lara wanted to suggest they find the shooter and take him out of the picture, but she didn’t know how Morton would react—or if she could follow through. “If we locate him, we could plant something of Kirsten’s on him. If they hold him over for trial, it will at least get him off our backs.”

  The commissioner pressed the accelerator, passing a line of cars on the right. Lara noticed the traffic was rather light in D.C. too. People had really cut back on driving…and everything else. She tried to ignore Morton’s weaving through traffic and stay focused on their problem.

  “The court will probably evaluate him, and if he’s mentally ill and violent, he’ll be incarcerated.” She stared at Morton. “It’s hard to believe he picked you at random. You have to think about everyone who could have a grudge against you.”

  “Believe me, I have, but I didn’t recognize the guy.” Morton made a sudden lane change. “I live near the Gauntlet and I need to stop at home for a minute.”

  “Do you work out of the offices on the AmGo property?”

  “No. I live in a nearby neighborhood that’s conveniently located. This whole area changed after the Reagan airport shut down.”

  Lara reached in her bag for her notebook. “Describe the guy in detail for me. I only got a fleeting look.”

  “Average height with pale collar-length hair and a thin mustache. He’s lean and probably in his thirties.”

  “How was he dressed?”

  “I don’t know. He had a gun. I didn’t notice his clothes.”

  “You had to see something.”

  “He wore black.”

  “Any scars, tattoos, or other markings?” Lara looked up occasionally as they made turns. The homes were new with beige paint, brick accents, and large green lawns. Unlike other places in the city, few trees had survived the redevelopment.

  “I don’t think so.” Morton touched his earpiece. “I need to call Minda.” After a moment, he said, “Lara Evans is out on bail and will soon be back at the hotel. Let’s get her into the Puzzle early tomorrow, in case the police decide to pick her up again.”

  Morton pulled into a driveway, pressed a device in his console, and waited for the gate to open. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

  When he climbed out, she noted the address, then leaned back and closed her eyes for a few minutes.

  The sun had set by the time they pulled into the parking lot, but just seeing the hotel gave her an unexpected sense of relief. Only a night in lockup could make a hotel room in a strange city feel like home. Inside, Morton strode directly to the manager’s office. He knocked once and stepped in, a man who knew he was in charge. Lara followed, suddenly feeling grubby. Her makeup had worn off long ago, her hair was limp and unbrushed, and she reeked of sweat. If the exchange took more than five minutes, she planned to have a shower in her old room before doing anything else.

  An attractive middle-aged woman looked up from her NetCom. “Mr. Morton. What can I do for you?”

  “This contestant needs a private room, but after the assault on her roommate, I don’t want her name in the system anywhere.”

  “I understand.” The hotel manager glanced at Lara. “I’m so sorry for what happened. We’ve never had an incident like it before.” She turned back to her screen and tapped her keyboard as she talked.

  Lara said, “I’d like to look at the security footage in the hallway near my room around the time of the attack.”

  “We sent a file of the footage to the police department this morning.”

  “I’d like to see it anyway.”

  The commissioner cut in. “Send it to me, please.”

  “Of course, Mr. Morton.”

  “I need to grab my things from my old room. Will you call me when you have the new key card?” Lara needed a moment alone to retrieve her 9-millimeter.

  “Let me send an attendant with you,” the manager said.

  “I’m fine.” Lara spun and left before anyone could argue with her.

  She headed for the stairs, noting the two men by the elevator and watching them for unexpected moves. The stairs would offer more obscurity and it would be harder for anyone to watch her come and go. She’d never felt vulnerable like this before and she hated it. Once the gun was back at her side, she’d feel better.

  Still, knowing the killer had several weapons made her nervous. The D.C. police had kept her Taser and probably submitted it to their crime lab. If the distance between the marks on Kirsten’s body didn’t exactly match the distance between the electrodes on her Taser, they’d have to reconsider their case.

  At her old room, Lara slipped her card into the lock. She pushed the door open and stepped quickly to the side. Damn! She wished she had her gun. She listened for movement, despite the hum of the air conditioner. It seemed unlikely the killer would come back to her room and somehow manage to get inside, but she wasn’t taking any chances. After a minute, she moved into the opening, but st
ill hesitated.

  A taped outline of where Kirsten’s body had lain marked the pale carpet in the foyer. A wave of guilt washed over her. Another person connected to her was dead. This was why she liked to keep to herself. She regretted not reporting the crime in Eugene, but she was in too deep now to correct her mistake. She stepped lightly around the outline and entered the sitting area.

  The guilt settled in her stomach, making her queasy. Lara fought it the only way she knew how—with a running stream of self-talk as she rushed to the bathroom. This was not her fault. She had just been doing her job as a medic and some crazy person tried to kill her. After a minute of deep breaths, she was able to keep her ProFast down. She dug her multi-purpose tool from her bag, stepped up on the toilet, and retrieved her gun.

  As she hopped down, her iCom beeped. She strapped on her weapon before checking the ID: Morton. “Yes?”

  “Meet me on the fourth floor near the elevator. Bring your luggage.”

  Once the commissioner left her new room, Lara dragged a heavy upholstered chair in front of the door. It might not stop an intruder, but it would slow him down. She looked around, wondering what other protection she could implement. The room was twice the size of the space she’d shared with Kirsten and had a fireplace, hot tub, and oversized wall screen. What it didn’t have was a security system that would let her see who came to the door. She would sleep with her gun as usual and hope for the best.

  After taking a shower and drinking a can of ProFast, Lara sat down at the NetCom. She wanted to check the stats for the Challenge and see who had made it into the Puzzle and who was going home. Her name was fourth on the list, and she was scheduled for nine the next morning. She scanned down. Jason Copeland from Illinois had won his match and so had Makil Johnson, two contestants she considered her greatest challengers. Makil had completed the Ironman Triathlon. Lara was surprised to see Suzie Ventola from New Mexico on the list of Challenge winners. She was thirty and small and had spent most of her career as an accountant. But she also competed in triathlons, so her endurance was excellent.